


Rough Stock

by feathers_and_cigarettes



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cowboy Hats, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Human Disaster Clint Barton, M/M, Mutual Pining, mechanical bull riding, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:42:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28725291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathers_and_cigarettes/pseuds/feathers_and_cigarettes
Summary: Because of course next to the fucking Lonestar Inn is a Western themed bar unironically named “The Bull’s Eye.” The sign boasts “everything bigger in Nebraska!” which Clint is fairly certain is not true, and even more hilariously, a sign that had at one point advertised mechanical bull riding, but someone’s spray painted a top to the “u” and now the sign boasts “ball riding” as an attraction.What the fuck is Nebraska, really?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 14
Kudos: 126





	Rough Stock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vexbatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexbatch/gifts).



> For the wonderful [Vexbatch](http://vexbatch.tumblr.com) who wanted some Winterhawk bar flirting and I got a little carried away. Enjoy Clint in a cowboy hat!

There has to be some sort of mistake. Some sort of cosmic joke that some unknown entity is playing, and Clint’s fucking sick of being the butt of it.

“I’m sorry, Mister Winchester, it appears there was some sort of miscommunication between the travel company you used to book the room and my staff,” the motel manager apologizes, her face one of someone who’s not paid nearly enough for the shit she goes through.

Clint sympathizes, he really does. He’s worked enough shit jobs and dealt with enough of the general public to last a lifetime – and that’s not even counting any of his time as an Avenger – but really, he _needs_ the world to throw him a goddamned bone here. A bone that doesn’t involve sharing a bed with Bucky Barnes in a fucking cowboy themed motel, of all places.

Come to think of it, “bone” probably isn’t the best word he should be mentally applying here.

He kicks himself mentally a few times and pastes a sympathetic smile on his face. “No, no you’re good, ma’am,” he soothes, holding up his hands disarmingly. “Is there _anything_ else you have available? Price isn’t a factor. Or even like a portable cot or something?”

The manager clicks the mouse a few times, her frown deepening. “I’m really sorry, sir. The only room we have is 114 and we don’t have any cots or air mattresses. The bed is a king, which I know doesn’t quite help but…”

“We’ll take it.”

Clint whirls around to glare at Bucky, who’s supposed to be waiting in the goddamned car, but can’t go twenty minutes without being a pain in Clint’s ass.

“We’ll make it work,” Bucky says quietly and nudges Clint with his elbow. “C’mon, _Winchester_. Let the lady do her job and get the keys. I’ll pull the car around.”

Fucker. Clint glares at him as he saunters back out the door, willing his eyes to not drift down to Bucky’s ass in those perfectly fitted jeans.

“I do apologize, sir; I’d be happy to comp your room service, if that helps? I know it’s not much, but I feel bad.”

Sighing, Clint turns back to the manager and runs a hand through his hair. “No, that’s all right, though I do appreciate it. We’ve just had kind of a long drive – we need a nap more than anything, at this point.”

He takes the keys she offers and signs his fake name. Giving her a smile that he hopes doesn’t completely radiate disappointment, he trudges out of the office and over to room 114 and debates if the stupid Prius would be too cramped to sleep in.

Fucking Fury. The whole fiasco is his fault – Clint had insisted he was done with undercover work, but he’d caved when he’d heard it was Bucky who needed the backup. Fury’d thought it was hilarious to stuff them both in a Prius for eleven hours and leave snide messages on Clint’s burner phone, the bastard.

It’s not like Clint hasn’t worked with people he’s attracted to before - hell, he and Nat were friends with benefits for years and he fuckin’ _married_ Bobbi for a hot minute – but Bucky’s just… different. Clint’s thrown for a loop by him and constantly feels like he’s half a step behind and it’s not a feeling he particularly likes.

“Did’ya get lost on the way or something?”

Plus, Bucky’s kind of a dick, if Clint’s being honest.

Clint snatches his duffel from Bucky’s hand and flips him the bird. He’s a grown ass Avenger and can carry in his own goddamned shit. “Shut up. Let’s get inside and check in with Fury. Drop’s not until three tomorrow, so I don’t know about you, but I want a fucking burger and a shitty IPA,” he grumbles.

“I thought you liked to give Banner shit about IPAs?” Bucky muses as he follows Clint into the motel room.

Rolling his eyes, Clint throws the duffel into the corner of the room and grimaces at the faint smell of cigarette smoke baked into the walls and stained carpet. “Yeah, well, we’re in bumfuck nowhere Nebraska, man. Nothing around here screams good taste, if you haven’t noticed. I’ll take what I can get.”

He claims the left side of the bed even though there’s not a chance in hell he’s going to sleep in it while Bucky’s occupying the right side. Kicking his feet up onto the duvet, he groans as he leans back against the headboard and closes his eyes. “Go shower, you fuckin’ stink and your hair’s greasy enough that I’m worried you’ll go up in flames if we walk by someone with a cigarette,” he grumbles as he pulls out his phone to message Fury and take his Words With Friends turn with Kate – not necessarily in that order.

Bucky gives him a long stare that both irritates Clint and makes him glad he wore his baggy jeans. He tosses his bag on the other side of the bed and strips his hoodie and t-shirt off in one smooth motion. Hooking his fingers into his waistband, he deftly unbuttons his jeans and pushes them down thick, muscular thighs. Without a word, he flips Clint the bird, pivots gracefully on his heel, and heads into the bathroom and slams the door shut.

One of these days, Clint’s gonna find some friends who don’t mix threats with flirting.

The water kicks on behind the white-washed door and Clint drags a pillow over his face. With the way Bucky showers, he can probably get a solid catnap in before he has to face the stupidly attractive asshole again.

~*~*~*~

Because of course next to the fucking Lonestar Inn is a Western themed bar unironically named “The Bull’s Eye.” The sign boasts “everything bigger in Nebraska!” which Clint is fairly certain is not true, and even more hilariously, a sign that had at one point advertised mechanical bull riding, but someone’s spray painted a top to the “u” and now the sign boasts “ball riding” as an attraction.

What the fuck is Nebraska, really?

An hour, four IPAs, and a shot of tequila later, Clint’s decided Nebraska isn’t so bad after all. He’s won a cowboy hat off some redneck in a game of darts and he hasn’t missed the way Bucky’s eyes have followed him ever since.

Picking up a pool cue, he twirls it expertly and saunters over to the bar. “Whaddya say, Buck? Up for a round? Show these guys how it’s done?” he asks, leaning a hip on the bar and throwing Bucky his best smile.

“We’re not supposed to be making a scene,” Bucky mutters, his eyes lingering on Clint’s bare forearms and trailing up his biceps. “Why are you like this?”

“Attention,” Clint replies, picking up Bucky’s beer and taking a long drink before handing it back. He throws an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and leans in, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “We’re not supposed to _break cover_. No one said anythin’ about making a scene.”

Check. Fucking. Mate.

Bucky seems alarmed at Clint’s sudden proximity and his eyes dart to Clint’s lips and back up again. They’ve been playing this game of chicken for too long and Clint’s determined to win – and really, at this point? He can’t lose.

“I’m gonna ride that bull if you won’t come play with me.” He hopes the double entendre is obvious enough for Bucky to pick up on but the tequila’s making his brain a little fuzzy. He’d rather be riding Bucky, but hey, he’s never ridden a mechanical bull before and he’s pretty sure he can last longer than the four guys who’ve tried since they arrived.

Bucky’s breath is warm on his face and it takes all of Clint’s struggling brainpower to not just sway closer. “You’re gonna get tossed on your ass,” Bucky murmurs, his blue eyes alight with amusement.

“If I do, will you kiss it better?”

Clint wants to take it back as soon as the words escape his lips but Bucky’s eyes darken, a flash of hunger flickering through them before he’s back under control again. “Tell you what,” Bucky says, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. “You last thirty seconds or longer and I will.”

And just like that, the stakes have been raised. The other guys have lasted anywhere from five to eight seconds, and Clint’s in way better shape than any of them, not to mention his years of acrobatics training. He’s got this – and Bucky – in the bag.

“You wanna know my secret?” he asks, grinning at Bucky and adjusting the brim of the cowboy hat.

“Tequila?”

“No. Well, maybe.” Clint leans in, his lips brushing Bucky’s ear and the cowboy hat almost falling off his head. “I’m a fuckin’ _Avenger_.”

Bucky pushes him away and runs his gloved left hand through his hair. He signals the bartender for a pair of shots and smirks at Clint. “One for luck then, _pardner_.”

The cheap tequila burns its way down Clint’s throat and he salutes Bucky with a tip of his hat. If he stumbles a little off the single step down from the bar, well, it’s just part of his swagger. He picks his way through the crowd at the mechanical bull and signs the waiver the operator gives him – if he finally snaps his fucking neck on a goddamned fake bull ride, well, he deserves it.

When the operator calls his name, Clint adjusts his hat, steps onto the mat, and grins at the cheering crowd. He finds Bucky’s face still at the bar and meets his raised eyebrow with a wink and his best leer as he swings himself up onto the mechanical bull. Securing his grip, he shifts his weight toward the front of the saddle and raises his left arm.

Piece of cake.

The bull starts with a jolt and Clint’s momentarily thrown. He tightens his grip with his calves and tries to compensate by throwing his weight backward, but he’s left gripping the leather handle with white knuckles and throwing himself forward as the machine rears back. Finally, he manages to find his seat and tries to focus his tequila-impaired gaze to the bull’s head, hoping it’ll give him some sort of clue as to its next move.

It works – somewhat. Clint lets out a whoop and moves with the machine, letting his body relax and finding his rhythm. The crowd’s cheers urge him on and he grins wildly, hoping Bucky’s getting a good look at his muscles at work. Maybe he can get a closer look at them later on that –

Clint’s breath whooshes out of him with a punched-out gasp and his vision swims as he hits the ground. His hat’s missing and his calf and thigh muscles burn with the exertion. He’s not sure when he lost his stride, or even _how_ , but judging by the roar of the spectators, he at least put on a good show.

Bucky’s amused face drifts into view, his arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his face.

“That was fuckin’ _awesome_ ,” Clint laughs, blindly groping around for his hat. “How long did I get? A minute? Two?” The hat covers Clint’s face and he sits up with a groan, pushing it back on his head.

“Try about nine seconds,” Bucky says dryly.

_Nine_?! “Fucking _nine?_ No way,” Clint protests, shaking his head and instinctively grabbing onto Bucky’s leg for support. “I demand a recount.”

Bucky’s lips quirk in a smile and he laughs quietly and Clint would possibly kill a man to hear him do it again – a real, genuine laugh out of James Barnes, will wonders never cease?

“Pretty sure you can’t get a recount unless you try again, but you did beat the rest of these guys’ records for tonight.” Bucky hesitates reaching down to help Clint up, his left hand twitching slightly in its glove.

Clint grabs the arm, clasping Bucky’s hand and feeling the vibranium plates shift through the glove. It braces against him and Clint leverages himself up and onto his feet, leaning heavily into Bucky’s side for balance. Super soldiers have gotta be good for _something._

“What?” Clint asks, tilting his head slightly as he finds himself nose to nose with Bucky. All he’d need to do is move _just_ so and –

Warm lips are suddenly on his and he finds himself responding like it’s the most normal thing in the world, his body slotting in against Bucky’s and his hand automatically coming up to tangle in Bucky’s long hair.

Bucky sighs into his mouth, some of the chronic tension leaving him. He allows Clint to take the lead for several long heartbeats, his mouth soft and pliable under Clint’s, but then a low growl rips through his throat and he’s pushing into Clint, his teeth flashing at Clint’s lower lip. He tastes like bitter ale – definitely better than the shit Clint’s been drinking – and tequila and something wild and intoxicating that’s entirely Bucky and that’s it, Clint’s gone.

Something deep inside Clint that he’s never looked too hard at is soothed, like an itch that’s needed to be scratched for too long. It’s new and raw and yet it just feels like coming home.

Pulling back for air, Clint takes a shaky breath, his lips twitching up in a smile he can’t control. Normally he’d have some witty comment about what the fuck that was all about, but he’s not sure if it’s the tequila or if he’s finally getting to the age where he just doesn’t care.

“Please say you’re gonna do that again,” he says with a soft laugh, feeling a little vulnerable under the intensity of Bucky’s gaze.

Bucky simply nods slowly, his hand moving from Clint’s hip to the small of his back and pulling him close once more.

~*~*~*~

“I can’t believe they kicked us out of the bar.”

“I can’t believe you’re still wearing that fuckin’ hat,” Bucky snaps, his voice a low growl as he rolls his hips under Clint, dragging low groans of pleasure from them both.

Clint can’t really say the scenery in the shitty Lonestar Motel is great, but a naked Bucky Barnes sprawled out on the bed underneath him certainly does wonders to improve the ambiance. He wriggles a bit on Bucky’s lap, biting his lip with a hiss as the cock deep inside him twitches. God, it’s been too fucking long since he’s done this and he can’t think of any other man he’d want to share it with at this point.

“You love the hat,” Clint says with a laugh, running his hands along Bucky’s abs and watching the muscles flutter under his fingertips. “Just admit you were picturing exactly this when you were watching me at the bar.”

Bucky props himself up on his elbows, his face constantly twitching between serious arousal and a lighthearted smile; it’s almost as if his body’s struggling to remember _how_ to have fun, _how_ to just let go and enjoy himself. He watches Clint move above him with a hungry expression, dragging his gaze upward until it lands on the cowboy hat still perched on Clint’s head. A laugh barks out of him, seemingly unbidden, and a broad smile breaks its way across his face.

“Maybe,” Bucky allows, tossing his head to clear sweat-soaked strands of hair out of his face. “You’ve certainly lasted a lot longer here than you did at the bar though.”

Clint clutches his chest in mock offense, sitting back on his haunches and biting back a moan as it changes the angle of Bucky’s cock within him. “Really? That’s where you’re gonna go with this? I bet you I’ll last longer than you will.”

Growling low in his throat, Bucky surges upright, wrapping his arms around Clint’s waist and burying his face in Clint’s neck. His lips are hot against Clint’s pulse, his teeth flashing and nibbling a bruise into the skin as his nails rake down Clint’s back. “You sure you wanna take that bet, pal?” he murmurs, licking a hot stripe across Clint’s collarbone underneath the mark he’s left.

Probably not, but Clint’s never had stupid shit like probability squash his competitive nature. He bends down, tilting Bucky’s head up for a wet, open mouthed kiss, utilizing every trick he’s ever learned to get Bucky whimpering into his mouth and thrusting erratically up into him.

Clint just wants to lose himself in Bucky, to just flip them over and let Bucky do his worst and have him in every way imaginable. He buries his hands in Bucky’s hair, letting his nails scratch at Bucky’s scalp and the back of his neck. He takes a shuddering breath when a particularly hard thrust brushes his prostate, gasping into Bucky’s mouth and letting loose a string of colourful phrases he’d learned from the carnies as a kid.

Fuck, he’s gotta get himself under control.

Straightening up, he uses his height advantage to its full extent and pushes Bucky back onto the mattress. “Yeah,” Clint replies, taking in a deep breath until the waver leaves his voice. “Yeah, I wanna take that bet. Loser changes the sheets.”

Bucky gapes at him for a second, confusion warring with the lust in his expression. He tries to sit up again, only to be stopped by Clint’s palm flat on his chest. “Loser changes the sheets _and_ buys breakfast.” His hips start to roll again, that deep, painfully slow motion that’s been driving Clint up a wall.

“Deal. Show me what you got, Barnes,” Clint says with a smirk, adjusting the hat on his head to a jaunty angle and wriggling on Bucky’s lap until his thigh muscles adjust. He throws one arm up in a mockery of his pose on the mechanical bull and laughs when Bucky groans and shoves at him. “C’mon, you gonna let a giant piece of machinery beat you? Let’s go, Terminator; bring it.”

Bucky lets out an almost animalistic noise and grips Clint’s hips hard enough that there’ll absolutely be finger-shaped bruises when they’re done. He plants his feet on the mattress and thrusts up hard, momentarily throwing Clint off balance and setting a punishing rhythm.

The change in pace switches something in Clint too. He makes a grab for his hat and that’s all he can think of before any brain cells he has left are fucked into oblivion. Gasping and half falling forward, he grits his teeth and braces one hand on Bucky’s chest, hoping to hinder him in _some_ way, but that stupid serum’s giving him advantages in more ways than one.

Sweat drips down Clint’s face as he loses himself in just staying on Bucky, letting his body move with the brutal rhythm the man has set. More than once, he reaches down to give the base of his cock a hard squeeze, desperate to hold off his orgasm until Bucky finishes.

Abruptly, the pace switches, and Clint’s left gasping as Bucky pulls almost all the way out, leaving just the head of his cock inside. Clint grabs and claws at Bucky’s forearms, trying to seat himself back down fully, to get that feeling of being full once more.

“You’re cheating,” Bucky accuses, his voice maddeningly calm.

Clint blinks, his chest heaving with exertion. “You’re the one using super strength here, hot stuff. How am I cheating?”

Bucky slowly lowers Clint back down onto his cock, his smile widening at Clint’s needy gasps and swears. He waits until his hips are flush against Clint’s ass before responding and moves his hands from Clint’s waist to his wrists. “This,” he says, giving Clint’s wrists a little shake. “Don’t touch yourself, don’t hold yourself back like that. I want to see how far you can let yourself go.” His voice is a low rasp, something desperate and raw that Clint’s never heard before and it sends a chill down Clint’s spine

“That’s not…” Clint pants, biting his lip to hold back a moan as Bucky rocks deep into him. “That’s not what this is about.” His wrists flex as he tests Bucky’s hold, but any move he knows to break free, chances are Bucky knows four counters for.

Bucky’s eyes are a little wild as he continues to slowly rock into Clint, a stark change from his previous aggression. “You wanna impress me. I wanna see you let that guard down. Let’s do both.”

Well, _fuck_ if that doesn’t do all sorts of things to Clint. He’s torn in his instinctive reaction to put some walls up, to cover with humour and make some sort of wisecrack, and his desire to just… relax with someone he’s got a whole lot of complicated feelings about. He rolls his hips down to meet Bucky’s, unable to tear his gaze away from those stormy eyes.

Clint’s cock twitches, dripping onto Bucky’s abs. He’s not _there_ yet, but he feels the pleasure brewing low and hot, fire licking up the base of his spine. He’s never just let himself enjoy shit before, there’s always a fuckin’ catch to it.

Reaching up, Bucky takes the brim of Clint’s hat and takes it off, setting it with surprising gentleness on the end table. The metal fingers return, trailing down Clint’s face, over his cheekbone, brushing his lower lip until Clint bites at it, his tongue sweeping along the vibranium pad.

The raw, open whine that leaves Bucky’s throat makes up Clint’s mind for him. He lets the fingers of his free hand dance up Bucky’s metal forearm, wondering if the sensors can actually mimic touch that well or if it’s some whole other mental thing going on to get such a reaction. Sucking Bucky’s thumb into his mouth, he lets his tongue swirl around the digit, his teeth gently scraping the pad.

“Jesus, Barton,” Bucky groans, his perfect rhythm faltering, and the muscles in his thighs twitching.

Clint smiles and closes his eyes, his hips moving with Bucky’s, and he just lets himself feel. He flicks his tongue over the grooves of each tiny metal plate in Bucky’s thumb, following down the digit to press soft kisses to the heel of Bucky’s palm. The gears whir almost imperceptibly against Clint’s lips, the vibranium shifting almost like skin as Bucky moves his fingers.

“Clint…”

“How much of this can you feel?” Clint asks, pressing kisses across Bucky’s palm, feeling a little dizzy and breathless. He sucks a kiss to Bucky’s wrist, right over where a pulse point would be.

“I can…” Bucky takes a deep breath, releasing Clint’s wrist to sit up again and slide his right arm around Clint’s waist. “Fuck, it’s hard to describe. I can feel the pressure there, but it’s… no one’s fuckin’ _kissed_ it.”

Clint kisses Bucky’s palm again and relents his assault on the metal. He drapes his arms over Bucky’s shoulders and nuzzles at his temple. “Well, you probably would’ve stabbed anyone who tried before now, so thanks for not sticking a knife in my throat,” he chuckles, dropping wet kisses to Bucky’s face and grunting at the abrupt change in angle and depth. “It’s part of you and I kinda wanna taste all of you.”

Bucky tilts his head and kisses him hungrily, all that intensity he brings to everything he does a palpable thing that Clint’s momentarily overwhelmed by. He can’t do anything but just hang on, to reciprocate as best and as enthusiastically as he knows how.

Warm metal fingers wrap around Clint’s cock, Bucky’s touch soft and almost ginger in comparison to his right hand’s grabbing at Clint’s ass to haul him closer. “Is this okay?” Bucky murmurs against Clint’s lips, pulling back just enough to speak.

“Perfect,” Clint replies, diving back in for another deep kiss and keening as Bucky’s grip tightens a fraction more. “C’mon, Buck, make me come. Touch me; not gonna break on you.” He doesn’t care about winning anymore, the whole tone of this has changed beyond anything Clint’s ever thought possible.

They’re moving together now, rocking in this rhythm they’ve found. Clint’s making incomprehensible noises in between what he hopes is gentle – and likely filthy – encouragement, needy little gasps escaping him with every twist of Bucky’s hand on his cock.

Bucky’s intensity is almost too much. His hips drive mindlessly up into Clint, his right hand clutching Clint as close as possible. He finally finds a natural pace with his left hand, taking caution with the metal plates and the sensitive skin of Clint’s cock, but managing to jerk Clint toward a rapid orgasm.

Clint manages to hold off _just_ long enough.

A low growl escapes Bucky’s throat and he thrusts up hard into Clint, his pace faltering and his hips twisting. He releases Clint’s cock and clenches his left hand into the sheets as he buries his face in Clint’s neck with a shuddering sob.

“That’s it, Buck,” Clint murmurs, pressing kisses into Bucky’s hair and grinding down into Bucky’s lap, enjoying the twitch of Bucky’s thigh muscles and the pulse of his cock as he comes. “Stay with me.”

Heat pools low in his groin and he takes his own cock in hand, quickly stroking himself before Bucky can soften inside him. He pants harshly, managing to tilt Bucky’s head up for a messy kiss just as his orgasm crashes into him. Warmth spills over his hand, his abs, his thighs, but it’s Bucky’s taste that grounds him, keeps his head from going completely into a blue screen.

Grunting softly, Clint finally shifts off Bucky’s lap and wipes his hands on the threadbare sheets with a grimace. They both groan a little at the separation and Bucky ties off the condom and pitches it with unwavering accuracy toward the trash bin.

“We’re pretty gross,” Clint comments, flopping onto his side and eyeing Bucky’s disheveled form appreciatively. He dabs at his abdomen with the corner of the duvet until Bucky slaps his hands away.

“I did all the work; you go get some towels and some fresh sheets.”

Clint gapes at Bucky in mock offense. “ _You?_ I’m sorry, Thunder Thighs, who’s gonna be bowlegged for the next three days after riding you for –“ He checks his watch and blinks in surprise. “Wow. Okay. An hour. No wonder my legs kinda hurt.”

The cowboy hat’s dropped on Clint’s head and momentarily blocks his vision as the bed shifts and squeaks. He tilts it back and wolf whistles at Bucky’s retreating ass and gets a vibranium middle finger in response.

“I’ve gotta ask though, pal,” Bucky calls from the bathroom over the sound of the faucet. He emerges once more with a damp washcloth and tosses it at Clint. “You gonna wear that hat again tomorrow when you fuck me or do I gotta get one of my own?”

Clint’s grin spreads across his face and he reaches for Bucky when he comes within range. He tangles his hand in Bucky’s hair, pulling him in for a deep kiss before grabbing the hat and settling it on Bucky’s head. “I mean, it’s Nebraska, man. What else am I gonna do but ride a cowboy?”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr!](feathers-and-cigarettes.tumblr.com)


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